


Restore What is Broken

by TerokNor



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Begrudging Partners to Reluctant Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Other, Slow Burn, To People Who Would Kill For Each Other, To Stable Roomates to People Who Maybe Kinda Like Each Other, With maybe a side of Friends with Benefits, it's complicated - Freeform, well it's more like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-01-23 20:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNor/pseuds/TerokNor
Summary: Elliott Witt is a sleazy arms dealer and weapons smuggler. Bloodhound is a mercenary hired by the losing side of an intergalactic war.They don't really like each other, but that's not a requirement for the job they've been given, which is to smuggle thousands of weapons to a band of rebels across the galaxy. And put up with each other, of course.





	1. Step One: Identify the Problem

**Author's Note:**

> 'Tis I, the sleepless degenerate, back again with the Miragehound shit.

"I said to the guy, fuck off or I'll throw you out the nearest airlock with a bullet sized hole in your skull." 

The pretty buxom young bartender rolls her eyes, used to Mirage's antics, but his air-headed young dates giggles, affectionately rustling his hair. 

She has seen him come and go many nights like this, always with a different woman on his arm, all with long hair, skimpy clothing, and adoring, yet simultaneously watchful and greedy eyes. 

He can be charming, of course, on the rare nights when he comes alone, but she knows many men like him.

Perhaps not many as good looking as him, but many smugglers, that is.

They could charm the pants off of anyone, but she's not looking for a guy like him, even if he is nice to look at. 

"What then, Elliott?" the brunette asks, touching his bicep for the fourth time in four minutes. She'd been laughing uproariously for the last hour, shaking her hair, smiling too wide with perfectly straight white teeth, pressing her chest against his arm. 

Meanwhile her friend, a tall and slimmer, but less curvaceous young blonde is twirling her hair and is constantly squeezing his shoulder, sharp pink nails digging into his skin almost like claws. 

"Of course he fucking lowered his ridiculous price. And my boss fucking loved me after that. Assigned me to the fastest, toughest ship in the organization."

"How do you do it, Elliott?" the brunette coos. 

"I read people," he responds airily, running a careless hand through his hair. "I've always been good at it. Always know when someone's bluffing, when to push, when to retreat. It's a natural instinct." 

"That's amazing!"

The bartender rolls her eyes. 

The door swings open and the bell above it rings. 

Her eyes drift over to see who has entered the bar. 

They then widen. 

"Mr. Witt-" 

"You girls should always watch out for guys who try to lie to you, I've got five surefire ways of telling, one-"

"Mr. Witt-"

"Shhh, not now, not now, Lizzie. Anyway, like I was-" 

The bartender backs away from the bar, looking a little alarmed. 

Mirage, Elliott Witt keeps talking casually, rapidly, but he begins to slow down, sounding confused and eventually stopping altogether as his two dates go from looking enamored to tense and fearful.

A shadow blocks the light coming from the outside porch bulb. 

As it draws closer, crossing over the threshold of the bar, its features, hidden in shadows, are slowly revealed. 

They wear a gas mask, protecting their face, a long brimmed, green hat with a yellow flare of yarn atop it, as well as strange bits of assorted metal  hanging from the brim like small pendants, black fur like feathers rimming the hood cushioning their neck, and khaki colored clothes full of ammo pockets, covered in light green padded armor. 

They also wear yellow knee pads, with two matching pads on their shoulders. 

On their left shoulder is a small black raven, perched comfortably on top of one of their pads. 

It tilts its head rather calmly at the patrons of the bar, all of whom are staring at this newcomer. 

The person, whoever they are, walks in slowly, purposefully.

A Longbow sniper rifle on their back, held loosely but still threateningly. 

Most people avert their eyes, looking tense. 

But Elliott swivels in his chair, looking unimpressed, and a little annoyed as the stranger walks passed him. 

"Nice get-up," he says cockily, raising an eyebrow at the stranger's attire, stopping them in their tracks before they can pass him. "I like the crow, really adds to the whole carnival circus aesthetic." 

"It is a raven," the person says slowly, their voice thick with a strange, but melodious accent. 

"It's a bloody chicken with the way you've been feeding it," Elliott snorts. "But hey, I'm not judging. I just thought the bar had a no pet policy." 

"It does, but as you have no doubt already been made aware," the person says, turning slowly from one date to the other, "There are exceptions." 

Elliott understands the implication immediately and his face hardens, his confident smile veering into malicious. 

"If you're not late for your job at the circus, then what are you wearing all of that for? Are you on route to your side job at the safari? Going to hunt gators and giraffes back on Earth Prime with tourists?" 

"What is it to you?" the person asks quietly. 

They do not sound angry, or even a little annoyed, but rather neutral, as though his answer doesn't matter either way.

Elliott's mouth twitches.

"I don't know, you just walk in here, make everyone uncomfortable. Come right up to me, like you want to fight or something. You know, only cowards would start a fight wearing a mask. Come to think of it, only cowards wear masks," Elliott says aggressively, jerking out of his seat.

The bartender winces, prepared to duck under the table in case Elliott was drunk enough to start a fight, which he's done several times, sometimes twice a night. 

He's a loose cannon, who will look for any reason to fight people, and when he's drunk, that can take the form of daring someone to do something stupid, or just starting a bar brawl by shattering the nearest glass of whiskey at someone's feet. 

She seizes the nearest one and clutches it to her chest. 

"You know nothing about me," the person says in their soft and even voice. "And it will stay that way. Excuse me."

They make to continue walking, but Elliott seizes them by the arm.

And lets out a yell as Bloodhound twists out of his grip smoothly, effortlessly, and shoves him lightly away. 

He hits the bar just as lightly.

But now that he's been antagonized, both emotionally and physically, his head buzzing, his temper short, Elliott is raring to go. 

The two women seize his arms, looking alarmed as he makes to rush at them, his face both angry and excited at the same time.

"Oh, leave them be, you're drunk," the brunette simpers, trying to soothe him by squeezing his arm, laying her curly brown hair on his shoulder. "Why don't we go to  your place, have some real fun? In private?"

The blonde shakes her head eagerly, squeezing his other arm. 

But he shakes them both off. 

"This motherfucker thinks they're some hot shit, walking in here with a fucking gun and scaring everyone here," he yells.

The other patrons, all of whom most likely have their own guns concealed somewhere, look around, some embarrassed by his outburst, some amused.  

The older patrons view Elliott as something of a problem child, a boisterous young man, arrogant and hot-headed and surrounded by other young men similar to himself in skill set and career. Charming, unpredictable, but mostly harmless. 

The younger ones see him as an inspiration.

Or something of an embarrassment, when he does stunts like this. 

"I bet you I could shoot this empty beer bottle off her head," Elliott says, seizing a bottle off the bar and brandishing it in front of the stranger. "From forty meters away, with a Wingman." 

The bar is rather quiet, as everyone is now watching the nightly debacle that is Elliott Witt. 

"And I bet you couldn't do it from twenty meters away." 

The stranger stares at him with their empty, reflective glass-concealing gaze.

"Is that a challenge?" they ask. 

"You're damn right. Even drunk as a fucking-fucking- as I am right now," Elliott slurs a little, unable to come up with an analogy. "I could still out shoot you, I bet. With a sniper, for sure, but with a pistol with a lot of recoil? I could beat you even with that." 

The stranger says nothing for a few seconds.

Every patron at the bar, even those not looking directly at the two of them, seems to hold their breath.

After a tense seven seconds, the masked stranger finally replies, still sounding calm, but a little amused now.

"I could shoot the bottle off fifty meters away. With a blindfold on." 

"You're full of shit," Elliott scoffs. 

"Let's find out." 

"Ok! Anyone who wants to get in on this, let's start a fucking pool. I bet I can shoot a bottle off Cynthia's head, from forty meters away, even hammered off my ass, and I bet this guy can't do it fifty meters away, with a damn blindfold. Come on, people, get in on this. Any takers?"

Elliott might be a moron, but he's a talented marksman, and many of the patrons know it.

They laugh and giggle as they follow the two outside, some actually betting against the stranger, some betting on Elliott. 

It's very late at night, the moon already out, but the booming little city's lights are all on, women on street corners, men making shady deals in the park, walking around in long coats with bulging pockets.

Elliott clears a gap in the crowds of people on the sidewalk, yanking out his Wingman pistol, loading it, and steadying his hand.

One volunteer puts an empty beer bottle on top of Cynthia's head.

The blonde woman looks a little scared, but the brunette murmurs, "I've seen him do this before, and he was way drunker then, you'll be fine."

The woman nods uneasily, then stills her head in order to balance the bottle.

Elliott walks backwards from her as someone, with a holographically projected meter stick they were projecting from their phone, follows him, stopping him at forty meters. 

Elliott closes one eye, seeing double for a few seconds as he tries to line up his shot. 

The assorted crowd watch him, some looking disbelieving, some looking merely entertained, and others looking unsurprised, used to Elliott's antics by now. 

The masked stranger, standing off the side on their own, watches without comment, their emotions hidden by the mask.

Elliott's head jerks to the side briefly.

He shakes it a little, and in one swift motion, almost carelessly, he raises the Wingman and shoots. 

Cynthia shrieks.

As the bottle flies off her head, shattering into a million pieces behind her. 

She lets out a yell, half exhilarated, half terrified.

The crowd erupts into drunken cheers, sending several passerby scuttling away from them. 

"Your turn, circus kid," Elliott crows. "Shall we make a blindfold out of your chicken's feathers?"

"You can use my scarf!" a patron offers. She waves her black scarf at him. "It's not see through, we'll know they're not cheating." 

"Um," Cynthia says, laughing nervously. "We don't have to do that part, they obviously can't do that. I don't want to get shot by accident!"

"You won't get shot," Elliott says rather unconvincingly. "Promise." 

"But-but-"

"I will not miss," the stranger says finally.

The crowd oohs. 

Elliott scowls. 

"Everyone back up," he says. "When this bitch misses, I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"But what if they hit me?" Cynthia squeaks. 

"You'll be fine, I promise!"

She opens her mouth to protest, but another bottle is already on her head, and she wavers, looking desperately at her friend, who looks helplessly back. They'd both been trying to seduce Elliott all night, get on his good side, now that it looked like he was on the way up and up within the Apex Conglomerate. Both had agreed to share him, more or less, see what they could get out of him in one drunken night, maybe two. 

But Cynthia doesn't want to be collateral for the sake of a silly bet. 

Still, she doesn't protest as this masked stranger has a scarf tied over the eyes of their mask, and is guided back to fifty meters. 

Elliott watches them with challenging bloodshot eyes. 

He looks uncomfortable, furious, his face resentful. 

The bartender, standing in the crowd, knows that he hates not being the center of attention. Can't stand it. 

"You don't deserve to hold her, but tonight's your lucky night," Elliott hisses, handing his Wingman to the stranger. 

They take it easily, their hands wrapping around it, finding the trigger easily. 

They stand stock still for a moment. 

Their little raven is as still as a statue. 

Everyone's eyes are on them, challenging, hostile, afraid, amused, and intrigued. 

For a moment, the stranger holds the Wingman limply in their hands, not shooting, aiming, or doing anything, merely standing there. 

"What's the matter? Going to back ou-"

Before he's even done speaking, the masked stranger's hand shoots up, their wrist snapping. 

They pull the trigger.

Cynthia screams. 

And then squeezes her eyes shut, fists tight at her sides. 

And she still looks that way when the bottle, hit perfectly dead center and shattered to pieces, falls to the ground. 

* * *

 

"Witt? You're fucking late, you useless drunk."

Elliott groans. 

His supervisor, staring at him from above his bed on a holo screen looks down disapprovingly at his half naked form. 

"You bloody fucking fool, do you have any idea how important this is? And you're not even dressed? You're keeping the client waiting." 

He snaps the holo screen off.

It buzzes angrily for a few minutes, but he ignores it, looking blearily around his apartment.

Clothes are strewn all over the floor, where he'd left them, creating a layer of dirty fabric at least ankle-deep that coats his floor and impedes his stumble into the bathroom. 

Food wrappers are everywhere, as well as leftover food left in boxes all over his dresser, his shabby couch in the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by a small, crappy island. 

Every cabinet is open, every drawer open, their contents messy and disorganized. 

His TV is still on.

He hops into his shower, only to yell out in shock when he trips over a bunch of empty beer bottles. 

Elliott's head is aching like someone's taken a bat to it. 

He tries to wash the sleep out of his eyes in the shower, tries to slap some of his sense back into his head with the freezing cold water, rubbing at his eyes and wincing at how sore he feels. 

He barely remembers last night, only remembering drinking with two smoking hot women, and then taking them home after....

After losing a bet...

Elliott groans as he vaguely remembers challenging someone to something stupid, and then a slight twinge of shame that accompanies the dim memory, which usually means he had lost. 

"Gotta stop doing that, Witt," he says half heartedly to himself in the mirror, forcing a smile on his face as he hastily brushes his teeth. 

But he knows it's an empty statement, not even half of a promise. 

Because he can't get to sleep sober, and he's known that for over twelve years. 

One of the Apex Conglomerate's (or A-Con) many disguised headquarters is hidden in plain sight as an insurance firm. 

Elliott goes right up to the top floor, dressed in his recently hungover outfit, in a baggy grey sweatshirt, raggedy ass jeans with holes in them, and tennis shoes.

He gets some dirty looks from his associates, but he smugly ignores them, knowing he's climbing, got a lot of promise, had recently caught the boss' eye and could only go up from there.

Finally, after working for these fucks for most of his life, since he was fourteen, he'd finally gotten some of the recognition he deserved.

Might get his own office one day. 

As long as he does his job right, he can dress however he likes. 

His supervisor, Marvin, stares at him as he walks in, shades over his eyes.

"Really? You're meeting with the client in that?" he says disapprovingly. 

"If they need weapons, they'll buy 'em from homeless men on the street, if they know they got the right firepower," Elliott sneers. "These people are desperate. Their little war isn't going as well as they'd hoped, and now they're running out of options. We have them right where we want them. They'll buy at any price. Trust me."

Marvin snorts. 

"I don't trust you, but you know what? Your ass is on the line, not mine, so do what you want, man."

"Where are they?"

"Waiting in office room 3b. I'll be arbitrating and observing."

"Yeah, yeah."

They walk into the elevator together, prepared to meet the client, one looking through paperwork, the other yawning and rolling up his sleeves. 

"Rough night?"

"The usual." 

They walk through the halls passed a few cubicles, which are really only there for show. A few people are at their desks, but they're doing research for A-Con, not doing anything related to insurance. 

Elliott waves at a few. 

"You know what you're going to say?" Marvin asks. 

"Yup."

"You did the research?"

"Nah, but I'mma wing it. It'll be fine, don't worry your head off."

"It's not my head they'll have..."

"Always so optimistic..."

They stop outside of the office room. 

"You ready, Witt?"

"A 101 percent, my man. I've got this."

"I hope so."

He opens the door for him.

Elliott walks in confidently, head held high, shades on even though he's inside.

He whips the glasses off, carelessly shoving them in his pockets.

"Sup?"

The office chair across from him, near the holo screen, turns slowly.

Elliott's smile slides right off his face. 

It's the masked stranger from last night. 

Of course it is. 


	2. Step Two: Understand Everyone's Interests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing, it's 5 am, and I'm breeding Dire Bears in Ark, the hell... 
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Gosh, I have no idea where this is going, just like the last fic, but hopefully it's a hell of a ride, just like the last one.

"Elliott, this is Bloodhound, a mercenary and intermediate agent for the Frontier Militia," Marvin says breezily, not noticing the stricken look on his employee's face. "He- I mean, they will be working closely with you on Operation Storm Break." 

The masked stranger, Bloodhound stares at him.

Elliott has no idea what they could possibly be thinking behind that mask, but he's pretty sure it's nothing kind. 

"N-nice to properly  meet  you," he says with a painful smile, offering them his hand.

For a few tense seconds, he wonders if they're not going to take it.

If they're going to rat him out to his employer, make him apologize, or perhaps simply walk out of the room, and refuse to negotiate a deal.

But then Bloodhound grasps his hand briefly, but firmly. 

Somehow, even hidden underneath a mask, Elliott can sense Bloodhound staring at him very hard, perhaps warning him not to get on their bad side again. 

Marvin gestures for them to sit across from him. 

They do. 

"You're familiar with the conflict, Witt?" 

"Y-yeah," Elliott says, eyes darting from his employee to his client swiftly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he gulps. "Settlers and homesteaders at the borderlands are against reintegration with Earth Prime, and tried to officially secede from the Union, but the Union refused to recognize their planets as independent. When they tried to land, their ships were blown out of the sky. Several high profile officials were killed, and now it seems like the entire quadrant is in chaos." 

"An oversimplification, but accurate enough," Bloodhound says quietly. 

"Well...the details aren't super important," Elliott says, waving his hand carelessly. "Just tell us what guns you need, and where you need 'em, and how much you're willing to pay." 

Bloodhound tilts their head at him, the vexing bits of metal hanging from their hat clinking melodiously against one another as they do so. 

"It is not so simple."

"Why not? We deal in weapons, you need weapons. Why can't it be simple?"

"Because this is not one big weapons deal. These people need a steady supply of not only weapons, but food, supplies, communication technology. They do not have access to Union credits, so your standard fares are not going to be paid with conventional money. The Frontier Militia is also outlawed, and cannot be seen dealing with any organization, lest they and that accomplice be arrested and tried for treason-"

"Wait-wait, you're telling me," Elliott interrupts them, his face irritated, his hands accompanying his words with short, choppy waves. "You don't have credits? And you expect to do business with us?"

"They have credits, but those associated with Frontier planets, regardless of their actual affiliation with the Militia, have had their accounts frozen. Their money is inaccessible," Bloodhound explains patiently. 

"So what are you doing here? Is this a joke?" Elliott says loudly, almost shouting. "You came in here expecting us to give you our services for what? Free?"

"They have other resources they can offer you-"

"We don't accept payment in cows, wheat, and burlap sacks," Elliott sneers. "I'm all for giving guns to a bunch of hillbillies who want to shoot up the feds when they come knocking on their ramshackle farmhouses, but if they don't have the money to pay us, then this deal is over before it's begun-"

"Let's not be so hasty," Marvin says smoothly, seizing Elliott's shoulder rather tightly. He fixes his piercing glare on his employee, who scowls, but looks away, conceding. "What kind of resources do you have access to? And how would you be able to provide us with them? As you say, you're hardly able to use conventional channels." 

"They are willing to share half of their Kaukadian ore with you every month, if you provide 50,000 M600 Spitfires; 20,000 G7 Scouts, and 40,000 R-301 Carbines, with over 2 billion rounds of ammo, to the planet of Kaukadia every month. They mine over 300 million tons in a year," Bloodhound says, their tone blank, professionally neutral. 

"That's a lot of guns," Elliott says with a frown.

"That's a lot of ore," Marvin says with a shrug. "Worth a small fortune, especially now, given how difficult the trade blockade makes getting that brand of ore at all. But what can we do with ore? Kaukadian ore is special, very rare. It can only come from one place. How would we be able to sell it without risking our deal being exposed?"

"We already have a buyer who's willing to refine the ore and sell it to companies that create energy weapons, ship engines, and shields," Bloodhound replies. "They are reliable and will not expose either of us as their seller. The ore will be recognizable, but difficult to trace once they've spread it out and passed it along their trade networks. They also have access to the credits you need. All they ask for is a delivery fee, half of which we will pay, and half of which you would pay." 

Marvin nods, eyes satisfied.

He shoots a glance at Elliott, who is still glaring at Bloodhound. 

"Is that all you want?" he shoots at his masked client, who slowly turns in his direction, quite obviously with dislike. "What can a bunch of farmers with guns accomplish against starships and interplanetary space ports monitoring your every move and jump dimensional mines waiting at every jump gate?" 

Bloodhound's cold masked eyes stare into his soul, making his teeth grind a little, his jaw clench. 

He doesn't like this person, not one bit. 

They look at him as though they could, and would, easily tear his heart out of his chest and calmly toss it down a mine shaft. 

But they also wear a mask, and he doesn't trust that, or them. 

"Why should you care?" they ask. "You'll have your money, as long as they are able to resist. What does it matter to you what their plans are?"

"Ah, what my associate means to say, perhaps in a politer tone," Marvin says rapidly, throwing Elliott a reproachful look. "Is how do we know this deal is...long-term? How do we know that your...charming little resistance cell will be able to keep your pay steady? We don't like to invest  in risky business, you see."

Bloodhound's head snaps towards him.

He flinches in alarm. 

"I doubt that very much," Bloodhound rasps, voice slow, with just a hint of warning.

An unexpected shiver goes up Elliott's spine, accompanied by a jolt of strange and inappropriate arousal in his stomach. 

"You are criminals yourselves, after all. The only reason I am here is so that you can gauge just how risky. And I assure you. This resistance is not going away any time soon." 

They say it with such conviction that Elliott almost believes them.

Almost.

"No deal," Elliott says. "We have no reliable way to transport that many guns to you without getting caught, and you don't have any reliable ships of your own that can transport the ore you say you're offering." 

Marvin opens his mouth to protest or perhaps to shut Elliott up, but then he pauses, actually considering what he had said. 

"We have recently obtained...several new galaxy class ships capable of storing the ore safely on board," Bloodhound says carefully, every word soft and meaningful. "Many know secret routes and backdoor jump dimensions to get to our third party refiner. They can sell the refined ore and send you the money wirelessly, with no risk for you, except perhaps for federal interception. Which I'm sure you're used to dodging by now. The most risk for you is actually not in receiving your ore money, but in transporting our end of the bargain. Do you think your organization can transport that many weapons without being detected?" 

They turn their head slowly from Marvin to Elliott, face inscrutable, posture still relaxed, yet just rigid enough to be professional, in control. 

Elliott hates the sound of this deal.

He'd known that the Frontier Militia would be desperate for weaponry, had jumped at the chance to negotiate the trade, to be involved in a war time business deal, since he'd known that desperate people would pay any price for a reliable weapons supplier. 

But something about this deal doesn't feel right.

And maybe, just maybe, he's still smarting from last night. 

"It's certainly possible. We've gotten around the trade blockades before," Marvin says. 

"Not to Kaukadia," Elliott scoffs. "The last planet before the neutral zone?" 

"The neutral zone is full of jump points," Bloodhound offers. "The Frontier Militia knows many back doors that lead directly to the planet's back yard. The only problem is, they have been shut out of official trade ports for over a year. They don't know the routes any more, don't know what paths to take so as not to arouse suspicion."

"So the problem is..." Marvin says slowly. 

"Their people know how to get to Kaukadia. But not what routes to take," Elliott says. "And we know what routes to take, and how to not look like outlaws. But we don't know how to get to Kaukadia." 

"So...why not have a representative from the Militia aboard one of our ships? They could show us the back door tricks, at least for the first year. And...we could keep them updated on trade routes. Maybe some more tactical military outpost information? As a little bonus?" Marvin asks, making jutting his lip out prospectively, raising his eyebrows. 

"...I don't believe they have anyone they can spare to be a representative aboard one of your ships," Bloodhound says. "They need every man and woman they have to produce ore, to train with weapons and bombs, develop guerrilla tactics, infiltrate the IMC...and if such a person could be spared, they would need to take time to choose who, train them in star charts-"

"Why not you?" Marvin suggests.

Bloodhound, for the first time in their meeting, seems taken aback. 

"..." 

"I mean, they pay you to be a representative already. You knew how to get here, presumably how to get back. You may not know trade routes, but you know what we need to know to make arrangements to get there. They can trust you, know you're one of them. Can make sure they know which ships are ours, and what they contain. And if anything...unruly happens during our trade, you're there firsthand to explain exactly what happened. You're a perfect candidate. Wouldn't you say so too, Elliott?"

"Sure, sure, whatever," Elliott says, rolling his eyes. 

"So what do you say?" Marvin asks, rolling up his sleeves and leaning back in his chair, looking content. "They must've known there would be stipulations and unexpected bumps along the way, right? You think they would accept you as their representative?"

"...yes, but-" 

"And you can show our ships where they need to go? Rendez-vous with them, coordinate your jump dimensions, show them the way back?" 

"Yes, but-"

"It'd only be for a year, at least. Our arrangements could always change," Marvin says with a shrug. "As we grow to trust each other, perhaps we could...offer you more aid. Medical aid, for example. Food, extra supplies. Bombs, shields, electrical equipment. Maybe even...other business connections. Political connections. Really, it's only a year of your life. I'm sure they'd pay you back handsomely, eventually. And if you want, we could even throw in some money, as you'd be our tour guide. And it would make our higher ups happy, knowing you're on our payroll as well. Everyone would win." 

Bloodhound hesitates. 

Elliott can tell that they're still not happy with the idea, probably hadn't wanted to commit their life to that long of an engagement. Maybe had been expecting only to represent the revolting hillbillies for this one deal. 

"...I would have to communicate with them about this..." Bloodhound says cautiously. 

A nonpartisan answer.

Elliott understands what that means. 

"How long would that take?"

"An hour, no more, no less." 

"Why don't you take the day? Give them some time to mull it over. Get back to us tomorrow. In the mean time, we can show you our facilities, or even show you around the city...what do you say?" 

"I have no interest in either of those things," Bloodhound says shortly, standing up swiftly. "I will discuss the deal with them immediately and get back to you as soon as I have their response." 

"Ok. Whatever suits you," Marvin says with a toothy smile. "We'll be here. Open all hours." 

He waves as Bloodhound leaves the room, a rush of air pushing into the room as they let the door swing shut in their wake. 

* * *

"You were so rude..."

"What? Are you kidding? What kind of bullshit deal-"

"It's fairly sound from a business perspective, actually-"

"We're risking too much."

"Not really. We've made riskier deals..."

"So? Every opportunity should be evaluated as its own thing, not based on some other gamble you made that turned out well-"

"Right you are, kid, but in this instance, the reward outweighs the risk. Kaukadian ore sells for a fortune these days." 

"It's easily replaceable-"

"But high quality, and rare because of the blockade. Low supply, high demand. You're still new at this, I see, Elliott. But it takes years to develop a business sense. To know when to risk a lot, in hopes of a high reward." 

"Let's hope your advanced years haven't turned you doddery, old man."

"Respect your supervisor. You're lucky I like you, or else I'd fire you just for being so hostile to one of  your own clients."

"They just... they can't be trusted. I just get that sense."

"Well, my senses are just fine, and I think they're trustworthy. And the Kaukadians are desperate enough to be reliable at the moment..."

"I don't trust desperate people... not unless our thumb is on their throat..."

"Spoken like a true cutthroat...but an average businessman. It takes people skills and the instincts to make a great one." 

* * *

Bloodhound is back in less than an hour. 

They seem rather stiffer than before, moving more mechanically, less fluidly and confidently.

They stand rigidly before them, as though resigned to saying what they're about to say.

"Your deal...has been accepted," they say, practically sigh. 

Marvin smiles ear to ear. "Excellent! And the stipulation that you be our representative?"

"Approved." 

"Wonderful."

"But there is one thing they wanted to know, which they said they needed to know before finalizing this deal," Bloodhound adds. 

Marvin interlocks his fingers together, looking bemused. 

"Ah? And what is that?"

"The name of the ship I will be on, and who I will be coordinating star routes with. They...demanded that I have a partner. One person who can...introduce me to A-Con's structure, its typical ship movements, who it does business with, among other things."

"A partner, eh?" Marvin says cheerfully. "Well, don't you fear. I know exactly what ship you'll be on. It's called the Pathfinder." 

Elliott turns in his chair a full 180 degrees to stare at his supervisor. 

"What?" he exclaims. 

"And your partner, ya lucky bastard, is going to be one Mr. Elliott Witt. Who I am now promoting to...A-Con Advisor and Liaison to the Storm Breaker Kaukadian Alliance." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmmmmmmmmm, I'm ready for conflict.


	3. Step Three: List Possible Solutions

_He's fuming._

_"You're telling me that I finally get assigned to the ship of my dreams, to my dream job, of being Trade Advisor for one of our best Frontier ships, and you're assigning me to babysitting duty?"_

_Mr. Warrig rolls his eyes._

_"It's hardly a babysitting job, Witt. They represent a huge trade for us-"_

_"They're on the losing side."_

_"That's a matter of perspective, my dear boy. They could very well be unlikely victors, and represent a huge power in the quadrant, with a great deal of spending and buying power. Do calm down. I wouldn't give this mission to just anyone,  you know-"_

_"They're not trustworthy," Elliott insists. "Mercenaries, I mean. I don't know about the Kaukadians. If you trust them, then I trust them, but this Bloodhound fellow-"_

_"You can trust people who only work for money," Warrig says with a smile. "The ones who have no values, no line they won't cross for the right price. Bloodhound's history checks out. They've been on the scene for ten years, never had a slip up, never betrayed a client, never caught working two sides. Fairly loyal paid blood. No indiscretions, no family that we know of, keeps to themselves, so no friends. If they ever became a problem, you could even deal with them the old fashioned way, you know." He slips a finger across his throat._

_Elliott still glares at him._

_"I think they're bad news."_

_"Well, I appreciate your opinion, but try to remember your place, Elliott," Warrig says with just a hint of impatience in his voice, a layer of steel beneath his cordial tone._

_Elliott gulps._

_"Yes, sir."_

_The rigidness disappears as he smiles at him like a doting uncle._

_"Now get to the Pathfinder. Don't let Bloodhound spoil your fun. This is the ship of your dreams, remember?"_

_He waves at Elliott, a clear dismissal._

_And Elliott, knowing he's pushed the boss a little harder than he should've, takes his leave._

* * *

_It's early morning, an hour or so before dawn, when he meets Bloodhound again, waiting patiently at the space dock, waiting for their ship to land._

_He sees them there with a beaten-up looking leather suitcase, sitting on the dock, watching the sky. They make a lonely figure out there on the airfield._

_Just the sight of them sours his mood, and it's some time after dawn when he finally forces himself to approach them._

_"Bloodhound," he says, trying to force some friendliness into his voice._

_"Mirage," Bloodhound says back, using his code name rather than his actual name._

_"So...why do you use that voice modifier?" Elliott asks, wanting to make some small talk to ease his irritation, but not knowing where to start._

_"...I value my privacy," they say in that strange accent of theirs._

_"Can you make it higher or deeper? Or more robotic or something?"_

_"Why would I do that?" they deadpan._

_"For fun? You ever have fun, Bloodhound?"_

_They do not answer._

_He takes that as a no._

_They are both silent for an unbearably long time, at least for Elliott._

_Then, because he might as well address the elephant in the room._

_"So...you remember me daring you to shoot a bottle off my girl's head?"_

_"I was not as drunk as you," they say simply._

_"Ah...well. I was pretty drunk."_

_"If you are the type to readily put yourself in compromising positions, then I doubt we will get along."_

_They say it so flatly that they almost sound condescending, but maybe that's just the leftover alcohol in his system._

_At any rate, no matter how they'd meant to say it, his hackles are almost immediately raised in response._

_"There was nothing compromising about it. Just a friendly bet that I lost."_

_"Do you lose bets often?" they ask with a hint of coolness._

_"I'm a gambler, yeah."_

_"I am not."_

_"I can tell."_

_The air feels stiffer than a winter morning's, despite it being quite humid today._

_"You know, I just want this business to go as painlessly as possible," Elliott says. "We could spend all of our time arguing or with you sulking because I'm right, or we could just get along. Your client gets their weapons, my company keeps 'em happy, we could all win. Whatdya say? This doesn't have to be personal at all."_

_"How modest," is all Bloodhound replies._

_"I'll take that as a soft maybe."_

* * *

"So that's the guy- I mean, person you been tellin' us about?" Ajay Che asks. 

Elliott grimaces, glaring over the top of his tankard. "Unfortunately." 

It's been a solid three days since they had picked up Bloodhound, and none of them had seen them outside of their room, aside from when they were in the astrometrics lab with Elliott. 

"All they ever do is correct me. And they're such a bore to be around," Elliott moans. "Why did my 'partner' have to be such a stick in the mud? I could handle arguing, but they just tell me I'm wrong, offer a solution, and then say nothing else. It's infuriating." 

"Sounds like my kind of partner," Bangalore snorts. 

She cocks her knee against the table, taking another swig of her beer. 

"Sounds to me like you just can't handle a partner who doesn't take any of your  bullshit." 

"What bullshit?" Elliott demands as the table erupts into laughter. "What bullshit?"

"You've hit on every single person here," Wraith laughs. "I thought Bangalore was going to break your face when you hit on Ajay, but it was nothing compared to when you hit on _her_." 

"I thought you were a dead man," Ajay giggles. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm just a friendly guy," Elliott protests. "And besides, even if I had that problem, I definitely don't have it with Bloodhound, of all people. I have no idea if they're really a dude or a girl or what." 

Ajay winces.

"Dude..."

"What?" Elliott demands. "What's the matter?" 

"Don't even speculate on it, that's none of your business," Ajay titters, the rest of the table nodding with her. 

"I'm not sure, so I said I have no idea, what's wrong with that?" 

"You said 'really' like they're something other than what they say they are. When Ajay asked them what pronouns they go by, they said they. That's all that matters. Respect it." 

"What? Have you gone mental? It doesn't make a difference what they call themselves. All that matters is what kind of plumbing they've got working downstairs..." 

The three women at the table all shake their heads, Ajay rolling her eyes, Wraith sighing into her drink, and even Bangalore, looking disapproving. 

"Such a man thing to say," Ajay says, her buns waving with her furiously shaking head. 

"I am a man, nothing confusing about that," Elliott retorts. 

"There's nothing confusing about staying in your lane," Bangalore says. 

Ajay immediately clinks her glass with hers. 

"All I'm saying is that even if I knew for sure, I wouldn't be into Bloodhound. They are the literal worst." 

"They see through your fake ass cocky prince charming persona, and it makes you uncomfortable?" Wraith suggests. 

"No! They refuse to indulge my fake ass cocky prince charming persona, and it's rude and makes us all uncomfortable." 

Wraith punches him lightly in the arm.

"You're such a handful. I can't believe they partnered you with Bloodhound. You two are total opposites. Bloodhound is very little talk, but all substance, and you're all swagger and no substance." 

"Maybe you should date them," Elliott says with a sneer. 

"Not my type," she replies. "Besides I have a strict no dating my coworkers policy."

The bar in which the four of them are currently clustered around a small, shabby table is large, almost packed, and filthy. 

Patrons dance in the center to harsh electronic music with a cacophony of hums, buzzes, and whirs. 

They're grinding, dirty dancing, some making eye contact with other patrons, smiling and winking suggestively,  others only having eyes for one another.

Elliott knows personally that the bathrooms are usually inhabited by people who couldn't wait to get home to drop their pants and begin lining up genitals, matching set be damned. 

Right now he makes eye contact with a girl who's thrusting her ass out behind her, grinding against a man who must be twice her age, and three times her weight.

She winks at him, and he feels heat rising in his belly, wants to feel skin dragging against his, the warm, wet slick of a tongue on his neck, or teeth on his throat. 

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

Half of the table jumps, Ajay flinching and cursing as she bangs her knee against the bottom of the table, Elliott practically out of his seat, but Bangalore unfazed, and Wraith merely amused. 

Bloodhound had practically manifested beside them, the loud noise disguising their approach. 

They stare inquisitively at all of them, masked gaze going from one to another until it finally stops on Elliott.

"She has a magnetic key ring that scrambles any data chips containing credits. When she dances with men, she runs it over their pockets, scanning for credit chips. It copies all of your credit information backwards, and she no doubt prints it forwards and is able to access your account with your data chips' distinct codes. It's hardly a new trick, I would think you would know it by now, Mirage." 

"We're not petty thieves," Elliott snaps, still on edge from being snuck up on and irritated by Bloodhound's newfound presence. "We sell weapons. We don't pick people's pockets. But I guess that's something a person like you would pick up, lurking around crowds like a cat that can smell cancer." 

Bloodhound doesn't seem to hear him.

They look at every other person at the table instead. 

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"No problem," Ajay says cheerfully. "We were just talkin' 'bout you."

"Oh?"

"All good things," Ajay assures them. "Just how excited we are to have you on board. It's nice to get fresh blood after a while. Surprisingly, smuggling weapons across star systems is so dull after a while. Meeting new people and going on fun adventures with chums is exactly what I imagined when I was a child, dreaming of being a space pirate." 

Wraith laughs. 

Bloodhound sits down cautiously.

"How did all of you get in this line of work?" they ask, trying to sound conversational, but in actuality just sounding awkward. 

"I used to work for the IMC," Bangalore says. "Was an obedient little soldier for twenty three years of my life, no slip ups, no refusal to obey orders, not a single toilet brush hair out of place. But after the Frontier war broke out, the feds stopped paying us every week. Then they stopped paying us every month. Told us to be patient, we'd get our pay in good time. Turned out that the general in charge of our units was a corrupt little rat who was taking a huge chunk of pay from the federal government and funneling it into his own private accounts and the accounts of other rich bigwigs like 'im. I took 3/4 of my squad and bailed when we heard about it. Now I'm out here, getting my fair share, and sticking it to the IMC fuckers who thought I was nothing more than cannon fodder. That's true justice for ya."

"My parents are billionaires," Ajay says. "War profiteers, who have considerable resources and connections to every military organization you could name off the top of your head. You could say it's the family business, profiting off of ammunition shortages and civil wars. The difference between them and me, though, is that I went into medicine to try and make up for the damage they caused. I thought I'd help people, instead of just causing harm. Well, I was naive and young back then-"

"You say it like you're not twenty four," Wraith says, rolling her eyes. Ajay ignores her.

"A friend of mine, a volunteer like me, went down to try to help the people of Alpha Centauri Base 11 during one of the first Hunger Wars. He was there to offer humanitarian aid and assist with their wounded, their sick, and all of the people dealing with severe emaciation. But they'd been without food, water, or medical supplies for weeks. They attacked him, practically gouged out his eye, put a dent in his skull when someone knocked him over in an attempt to get his share of water first. After I saw that, after I patched him up myself, I knew that they didn't deserve my or his help. They were animals, all of them, forgetting any human decency. I decided I couldn't dedicate my life to helping people like that. So I used one of my parents' connections, got myself a job as a medical doctor and a shield expert for A-Con. And here I am, making money. Trying to save up, maybe make an organization of my own someday. Maybe one that actually gives a damn about people, but not just anyone, the right people. People like yours," Ajay adds, nodding at Bloodhound. "Who're trying to make a difference, not just go to any lengths to survive. That's 'ow animals live, not people."  

Bloodhound looks to Wraith, who merely shrugs.

"I have no idea," she admits. "I woke up in an abandoned lab that was still smoking. It was A-Con that found me. Took me in, said they would call me Wraith as a code name because of some of the...magic tricks I can do. And I stick with 'em cuz...well, I dunno. They've got a lot of resources, they pay well, and I figured, there are worse ways to make money and look for clues to your strange mysterious past, right?" 

Bloodhound hasn't moved an inch since they asked their question. 

Now their hat tilts as they look at Elliott. 

But he chuckles. 

"I'll pass on this one," he says. "But I'm curious. How did you get in this line of work, Bloodhound?"

He stares challengingly into their masked eyes, refusing to look away, despite being at a clear disadvantage.

Bloodhound's eyes bore into his soul.

But he doesn't falter. 

And Bloodhound finally concedes, turning away from him. 

"I'll pass on that one," they say over their shoulder as they stride away. 

"That's what I thought," Elliott murmurs. 

Ajay is scowling at him. 

"You drove them away from the table. Bloodhound, come back!" 

But Bloodhound doesn't come back that night. 

And neither does Elliott, to Bangalore's irritation, as he hadn't paid for his damn drinks. 

He goes to the home of a beautiful older woman with electric blue nails and long blonde hair and a waist so small he has a hard time believing she's in her forties. 

But by the end of the night, he has no trouble believing it, as she kicks him out of her apartment, which he finds out is actually her step son's, around 4 a.m., telling him that he couldn't be here when her twenty one year old stepson got back, as he paid the bills and was tired of her bringing back guys to their place. 

She's just one of many strange conquests he's made over the years, beautiful, easily charmed, and maybe just a little unbalanced.

Searching for something, hoping to find it in him for the night. 

And even if they couldn't find what they were truly looking for, they'd at least find a sympathetic ear.

Someone who'd given them a cheap, but short-term satisfaction for the night that could fill up all of the empty holes in their lives. 

Someone they knew was pretending to care, but it didn't matter, so long as someone was doing it.

He wishes he felt some semblance of guilt or shame every time he stumbles away from yet another home he's being kicked out of, but he can't.

He's grown to enjoy the chaos and the shame and the feeling that this is wrong, and god I'm not happy. 

You roll with what life gives you, and if what it gives you is fucked, then embrace it. 

When he stumbles back to the ship's landing port, he's shocked that he's found it at all, given how terrible his hangover is. 

And when he gets back on board, instead of plotting their next course with Bloodhound, he falls face first into his bed, and sleeps for thirteen hours. 

When he wakes up, he's missed his shift. 

And Bloodhound has left a note on his door, demanding to see him immediately. 


	4. Step Four: Evaluate the Options

Bloodhound is standing inside the wide, dome-shaped astrometrics labs. The projector is on, the stars twinkling around them so realistic it is as though they are floating in space.

He stumbles through the pitch dark room, disoriented by the lack of light and the millions of tiny lights, twinkling cheerfully at his hungover ass. 

"This place is the worst when you're hungover," he says with a sloppy grin.

Bloodhound doesn't turn.

"Is that your excuse?"

"Hmph...no. I drink every night. I just happened to meet a nice lady. She took me home, we got busy, you know how it goes."

Bloodhound still hasn't turned, but Elliott, undeterred, walks up beside them, slinging his arm around their shoulders and vigorously shaking them.

"Do you? Know how it goes?" Elliott asks conversationally, yawning into his hand, his foul smelling breath wafting over Bloodhound's mask. "You ever been with a woman, Bloodhound? Or a dude? I'm not judging, just curious."

Bloodhound slaps his arm away. 

"That is none of your concern," they say. 

"I know it's not a concern, I just said I was cur-"

"I am not your friend or a drinking buddy," Bloodhound says stiffly. "I am a coworker. And you will show me respect by keeping our conversations professional. Is that clear?"

Elliott is full of insults and foul-mouthed comebacks. All of them gather in his cheeks like venom, ready to be spat into his  partner's face. 

But staring at his masked partner's back, he feels a twinge of guilt, and the venom recedes. 

"Y-yeah. Fine. Sorry. Just thought I could hook you up. If you're not into it, you're not into it, we can be professional," Elliott says, voice only trembling ever so slightly at the end, when he feels a burp rising. 

"And you will not be late again."

"Yeah, I won't. I mean, probably not."

"Mirage," Bloodhound says with a hint of warning.

"Listen, no one can make assurances about anything," Elliott sighs. "I could have a heart attack one morning, and be late, and you'd think gosh that Elliott is a moron and a dick. Then you'd come to my room and see my lifeless corpse, and then you'd feel bad. So I'm saying right now that if I can't make it, it will be because of dire circumstances. So I can't say it'll never happen again, all I can say is that should it happen, it will be under threat of mortal injury. Alright? We cool?" 

He offers Bloodhound his hand. 

They don't take it immediately, instead staring intently at his face as though trying to gauge his sincerity. 

He blinks back at them, feeling drowsy, his heart beat too loud in his head, which feels thick and weightless at the same time. 

Finally they nod and grasp his hand very briefly. 

"Very well." 

Elliott flashes them a quick grin, then turns to  look at the system they had been studying.

"We're going to be making a stop here...at Lumeria. Huge industrial planet. It's where we're going to retrieve your order for 50,000 Spitfires. Lifeline, Ajay, I  mean, has connections there 'cause of her parents. Huge influence in the military and business districts. We're making a stop at the district of Callan. Security's pretty lax there and there's quite a bit of corruption. We'll have to watch our step around street gangs and some IMC goons, but nothing I haven't dodged before. We'll be coming through the front port here. There are so many ships coming and going, we won't be noticed." 

Bloodhound nods. 

"You ever been to Lumeria?" 

"No."

"Well, it's best explored in the dead of night. Lifeline and Bangalore are going in the morning, I think to visit Ajay's parents and to make sure nothing went wrong with the production and shipping. You and I are going much later to actually do the inspections, inform the suppliers of our schedule, do some recon, check out the market. Your employers would probably appreciate you gathering as much information as possible for them, right? They've been out of the loop for a while."  

"I am their chief informant," Bloodhound says quietly. "But there are many places I cannot travel." 

"Well. I guess it's good you're with us, then, since we go pretty much everywhere," Elliott says, trying to smile at them, but making more of a pained grimace instead. 

They aren't looking at him anyway. 

Bloodhound is rather uncomfortable in the city, Elliott notices. 

They're constantly looking from side to side like an animal wary of a surprise attack. 

He supposes he can't blame them.

Lumeria, despite its fairy-sounding name, is actually a stinking cesspit of crime, smog so thick people often wore masks just running to the local convenience store, with locals as hard and bitter as the gin they distilled. 

Elliott rather likes the thick grey grime of the air, the slick shadows that reach across the pavement at night, the lamp posts casting them as crooked as their street merchants. 

He likes the dirty bars with cracked gray windows, peppered with bullet holes, their often toothless bartenders, the smell of raw sewage, and the heady aroma of sweat and debauchery that often wafted out of the many brothels found on every other street corner. 

But he understands why others might not.

Bloodhound tenses as a woman approaches them.

"You gentlemen looking for an exciting night?" she asks, twirling her room key on her index finger, the implications clear in her eyes. 

Bloodhound recoils from her as though she were holding a jagged rusty knife, so sharply that Elliott instinctively reaches out, separating the two of them (although he isn't sure if he's protecting Bloodhound from the girl, or the girl from Bloodhound).

"Sorry, not tonight," he says, winking at her. "Perhaps another time." 

"You need to calm down," he says afterwards to Bloodhound as they walk side by side beneath the city's lamp lights. "You're making us look more conspicuous." 

"I do not like cities," they grumble. "You should always be on your guard."

"I've been here a million times," Elliott says, rolling his eyes. 

"Of course you have, this city is crawling with criminals," Bloodhound murmurs.

"You say it so unkindly, and yet, what do you call yourself?" Elliott retorts.

Bloodhound doesn't answer, which Elliott takes as a sign of surrender. 

Some time passes before they speak up again. They still have a fifteen minutes' walk to the warehouse he was supposed to be meeting a supplier named Thomason at. 

"Do you often visit brothels in Lumeria, Mirage?"

"You think so little of me," Elliott says melodramatically, throwing his hand mockingly against his forehead as though scandalized. "I don't have to pay to get some." 

"Perhaps you should," Bloodhound says dryly. "The quality might be much improved over last night."

Elliott's jaw drops open and he stops mid-step to glare at his companion, who keeps walking. 

"You're really going to roast me on the women I sleep with? That's not fair, you wouldn't even let me speculate earlier on what you're into. You owe me one now. You've got to tell me, men or women? Or both? Spill. Spill right now."

"You invite such analysis of your sex life, Mirage. When you so publicly flaunt yourself like a rooster with multiple hens, you invite ridicule," Bloodhound says. 

"A rooster? Did you just call me a cock?" 

Bloodhound shrugs. 

Elliott isn't sure if he's annoyed or amused, although he'd say he's probably leaning more towards annoyed. 

They arrive at the warehouse, Elliott still fuming, Bloodhound unfazed. 

Inside, they meet a rookie Elliott’s never seen before, a short little lump of a man who seems rather nervous. 

Elliott can tell he’s green, not just from the fact that he doesn’t recognize him, and he knows everybody, but because he seems timid, miscounting the crates they had ordered, and generally getting in the way rather than helping the crew members, who are doing an inventory check.

“And uh- uh, these are the spitfires you ordered, all 5000- I mean, 50,000...oh god, did I-? No, no, I definitely did not miscount- there are 50,000, which you ordered-”

“No, I ordered 60,000,” Elliott says hotly.

The man recoils, looking terrified. 

“So-so sorry, sir-”

“He is joking,” Bloodhound says shortly. “In poor taste, but a joke nonetheless.” 

“Ah-ah, oh,” the man says, gulping weakly. “Very funny, sir.”

Bloodhound stares at Elliott hard as soon as the man scuttles away.

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s fun to watch ‘em squirm sometimes,” he says with a shrug.

“Despicable.”

“Ok, you murder people for a living, and you’re going to act uppity?” Elliott asks hotly. 

“There is nothing dishonest or cruel about the way I run my business.” 

“Well, dishonest and cruel describes A-Con, I’m afraid. And hey, I’d say it describes your buddies too. There’s nothing bright, squeaky, and clean about a revolution!”

Childishly he wink at his companion, whose movements are rather sharp as they turn from him, quite obviously annoyed. 

“Uh...uh...you can...now inspect the weapons’ crates.  I’m-I’m sure you’ll find them satisfactory…” 

But the  man says it with as much confidence as a toddler trying to recite the alphabet backwards. 

Elliott rifles carelessly through each crate, really only doing a headcount, while Bloodhound follows behind, inspecting the contents of each case carefully. 

“It’s fine,” Elliott says. He waits impatiently for Bloodhound to catch up to him. “Hurry it up, will you? I’m starving and I’m going to my favorite sushi place in ten minutes, regardless of where you are.”

“Such disrespect for a trade partner,” Bloodhound says coldly. “I am finished.” 

Elliott waves off their irritation. 

“It’s disrespectful to assume we run a shoddy business that you need to inspect head to toe, almost like you’re hoping to find some flaw or underhanded trick.”

“You are projecting, Mirage.” 

He grits his teeth, but says nothing more as they are offered the final papers for signatures, using their code names, or in Bloodhound’s case, a simple B. 

As they leave the warehouse, Bloodhound glances quickly at Elliott. 

“Are you going to eat?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back whenever,” Elliott says without looking back. 

“Do you wish for me to come with you?”

“No, what are you, my babysitter? Lay off, man, our business is done.” 

It doesn’t occur to him that Bloodhound might’ve been trying to get to know his partner until later, much later, after he's eaten his sushi and downed three shots. 

But that’s alright, because if he’d been sober, he would’ve felt bad. 

Since he’s already stinking drunk by that point, he just shrugs it off, thinking to himself, “Better luck next time, Bloodhound.” 

He probably shouldn’t be drinking in public, probably should be keeping a low profile, but he’d made his bad decision the second he’d seen his favorite pub crawl, stepped in and greeted the attractive young female bartender. 

He figures he’d flirt with her a bit, maybe make himself look fun and charming while the other female bar goers were within ear shot, maybe get a couple to come back to the ship with him...of course, he’d never hear the end of it from Ajay, but it might be worth it for a wild night on the town before that boring long stretch of stars through the Red Cluster Nebula…

But he hadn’t gotten very lucky tonight.

Most of the women here seem hard-eyed and unfriendly, keeping to themselves and not speaking to anyone they hadn’t come in with.

Elliott leaves alone, for once, and decides to sleep it off in the ship.

He doesn’t notice he’s being tailed until it’s too late.

A huge rough hand grabs him around the throat.

His head, slowed by alcohol, doesn’t even notice he’s been slammed against an alley wall until he feels the vague trickle of blood down his temple.

He shakes it bemusedly, not fully grasping what’s happening.

“Can I help you?” he manages to gasp out.

"Yeah. Yeah, you can."

The fingers tighten.

"I...owe you money or somethin'?" 

“It’s not me you owe,” the man growls. “It’s my sister. You remember her? Leandra? Leandra Beckinbrook?”

“Ah- she has a cybernetic eye?” Elliott chokes. 

“That’s her. "

"She was a sweet heart." 

"Yeah well, she’s four months pregnant and she says you’re the father. You've got a lot of nerve, walking out on her-” 

“I-mpossible,” Elliott says, squirming against the wall, his feet barely brushing the asphalt street. “We used protection. And I wasn't even here four months ago, I was on Rianus." 

“That’s not what she says.”

“She’s...a liar.” 

He lets out a grunt as the man swings into his stomach, letting him go, but throwing him into the wall instead.

Elliott stumbles on a discarded beer can, vision swirling, both from pain and from how much he’d drank. 

“L-listen, we ob...vously...had mison-mission-derstanding-” Elliott says with a frown, his head buzzing unpleasantly for a moment, numbing his thoughts. “Just uh- Just-rela-?”

The man punches him in the side, and he crumples with another groan, legs feeling heavy and unwieldy, his stomach churning. 

“For fuck’s sake, s’not mine,” he grumbles. “Your sister gets around, pick up a phone book-”

The man lunges at him, leg drawn back to kick him in the face. 

Elliott braces himself, prepared for the nasty blow, his face turned away in the hopes of mitigating some of the damage. 

But the blow never comes.

The man stumbles back.

He whips out his knife, looking wary.

Elliott throws himself out of the way as he lunges- but not at him.

At...Bloodhound, who has suddenly appeared, is standing right next to him. 

Has their hand out, as though they’d thrown the man’s foot back. 

Elliott wants to yell out a warning, but he’s suddenly lost his voice, his words jumbled up together in his brain like a battered soup.

But Bloodhound doesn’t seem to need the help.

They easily parry the man’s stab, catching it with their bright silver knife. 

He howls as they, moving far quicker than he, slashing at his chest, drawing blood. 

He makes a feeble attempt to stab back at them, but they easily throw his arm off course, stepping forward coolly, gracefully, and plunging their dagger into his arm pit.

The man’s eyes seem as though they’re going to bulge out of his head.

He makes a strange gurgling sound, like a dying goose, before Bloodhound covers his mouth with their gloved hand.

“Rest,” they whisper. 

Blood leaks between their fingers, staining their hand red.

The man’s eyes go blank, and his body goes limp.

They flick the blood off their finger tips dismissively, droplets splattering against the man’s cheeks as he falls back.

Down, down, down, landing softly in a pile of trash bags. 

From a distance, he just looks like the usual drunkard crawling into an alley and passing out after too long of a night at the bar. 

But Elliott, peering down at him, sees that he is dead. 

And that he'd been killed quite efficiently and swiftly, and without a sound to boot. 

He stares at the man's bloody mouth with fascination.

Then, slowly, he turns his head towards Bloodhound.

Looking at their fingers.

Watching the blood drip, drip, drip onto the pavement. 

An ambulance passes by them, its red lights blaring, and for a moment, Bloodhound is silhouetted in red. 

The eyes of their mask glow scarlet as they stare at him, body outlined in crimson like an avenging angel come down to slaughter. 

He feels weak at the knees, but at the same time, a strange, watery excitement fills his belly, and maybe rushes a little lower. 

“Are you alright?"

He almost doesn’t hear the question, he’s staring at the blood on their long, slender fingers, one hand still holding the dripping knife, the other extended out to him. 

“Elliott?”

At the sound of his name, the trance is broken.

He blinks.

“...Hey...can I buy you a drink?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, but took so long.
> 
> Updates are gonna be slower than they normally are, I've got a masssssive paper to finish and just started a new editing job that I already hate. Not a lot of time for fanfiction.


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